


From Eden

by tangerinabina_de_archanea



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, aziraphale is Oblivious while Crowley is making the pleading face emoji behind his glasses, like yeah they're still an angel and a demon... but that's it, mild pining, very loose use of canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-16 01:11:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21499393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerinabina_de_archanea/pseuds/tangerinabina_de_archanea
Summary: Aziraphale sells flowers, and Crowley sells ink. The fact that their shops are next door to each other gives an angel and a demon an excuse to be around each other.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	1. January- Three Steps Away

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday to my fantastic, amazing roommate! Truly, I couldn't ask for anyone better to live with! You're the absolute best! Love you~ <3

Aziraphale knows that his next-door neighbor at the tattoo shop, Anthony J. Crowley, is a  demon, and Crowley knows that he’s an angel, but neither of them see that as  _ much _ of an issue. Crowley is a decent sort of fellow, Aziraphale found shortly after his initial realization, and not at all the sort of malicious demons he had dealt with in the past, so he doesn’t see a reason not to be friendly, nor to report him. The most temptation Crowley takes part in is getting customers to finally go for that full sleeve they’ve always wanted, or to add a pop of color that in his opinion will look simply marvelous. Aziraphale thinks it’s quite endearing, actually, even if he can’t name that emotion. It always comes popping up with the way his stomach twists when having tea with Crowley, or he hears his stories in passing when Crowley comes by to pick up flowers, or when he occasionally lowers his sunglasses to give Aziraphale a flash of his true eyes, piercing and yellow and extraordinarily handsome (although Aziraphale can’t put words to how he feels about Crowley’s eyes, either). 

Aziraphale owns a little flower shop named “From Eden,” and a rather nice one, too, in his opinion. He wanted it to be books, but a few minor inconveniences and a few more major ones led him to becoming a florist rather than a bookseller. It’s still enjoyable in the interim, and so he sticks with it, knowing that one day he’ll have a bookshop. He just has to have patience. 

Besides, the flower shop is a nice excuse to see Crowley, who is, surprisingly enough, quite taken with the art of gardening, and claims to be an expert at it. He’s shown Aziraphale pictures on his phone before of his plants- which, Aziraphale admits, truly are beautiful- and claims to have a secret method to grow them thus. Aziraphale assumes he must be referring to minor miracles, and chuckles a little to himself over how he won’t admit it.

Today it’s storming out, and the rain beats against the glass like the thundering drums upon Judgement Day, but Aziraphale is cozy inside his shop, listening to a recording of  _ Hamlet _ as he arranges flowers in bouquets, careful not to soil his fine ivory jacket. He does not need to dress so finely for his job in the shop, but he has standards, and refuses to be seen looking anything less than his best.

“There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays,” comes the voice of the actress over the crackly speaker, and Aziraphale matches her tones with a quiet little imitation of his own (at least, he thinks it’s quiet- it isn’t in the slightest). Faintly, he thinks he hears the chime of the shop’s bell, but ignores it. “You must wear your rue with a difference.”

“There’s a daisy,” another voice suddenly joins in, and he drops the vase he’s holding, instantly recognizing the tone as his pants are splashed with dirty water from the flowers.

“Crowley! Not again!” he huffs. “You caught me by surprise.”

“I was sure you’d heard the bell.” Crowley, ever tall and lanky, leans over the counter to see what damage he’s caused. “Oh, that’s not so bad. Just a dribble of water. Nothing compared to me right now.”

“Yes, well I wasn’t the one who was mucking about in the street in this sort of weather. I’ve kept these pants in tip-top condition for years now, and now… Well, it would take a miracle to get them clean again.”

“A miracle, eh?” Aziraphale can’t see it, but he’s sure that Crowley just rolled his eyes. “Well… I s’pose I could do something.” In a moment, Aziraphale’s pants are clean, and the vase whole. “How’s that?”

“Much better, thank you,” Aziraphale smiles, his mood repaired almost entirely. “What brings you here in such dreadful weather?”

“It’s not dreadful. It’s nice. A bit wet, though.” To emphasize, he shakes himself like a dog, sending water splattering everywhere but politely avoiding wetting Aziraphale further. “Not the biggest fan of being wet. I wanted to pick up tomorrow’s flowers.”

“Well, if you go out now, they’ll surely be ruined.”

“It takes three steps to get to my shop.”

“It takes three steps for flowers to be ruined,” Aziraphale says primly, and goes to the door to turn the sign around to read “Closed.”

“Aren’t you open for another hour?”

“No one’s coming to get flowers in weather like this, and you’ll catch cold if you don’t get something warm in you. Would you like some tea? Or coffee, perhaps?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Crowley nods, and after a moment, adds “Coffee.” He saunters into the back like he owns the place. Some days, it practically feels like he does, with the way he goes about, but that’s just another way of him showing how comfortable he is around Aziraphale. It’s a treat, he supposes, because he knows Crowely isn’t very comfortable with anyone- although he’d die before admitting it, he guesses.

Aziraphale joins him in the kitchen, and they sit and talk by the fire as the rain rattles the windowpane. When it finally abates, Crowley dumps his cup in the sink with a sharp clink (not before rinsing it out, of course- he’s not that rude), and Aziraphale sees him out of the shop, flowers in hand. There’s a rainbow in the sky, vivid and bright, and Aziraphale points out how lovely it is, and Crowley shrugs. “S’alright,” he says, and then takes the three steps to his tattoo parlor.


	2. February

Crowley has long resigned himself to having an angel as a neighbor, certain that Aziraphale was going to be one of those prickly types who never got so much as a toe out of line and always smugly reminded him of how morally superior he was. Fortunately, that wasn’t the truth at all, but Crowley also learned that there was going to be a new source of irritation, and that was how damn amiable and charming the angel was, as well as his insistence on seeing the good in everyone, including Crowley himself. “You’re quite a nice fellow,” Aziraphale would say, with that bright smile of his usually reserved for his favorite plays or foods, and Crowley would squirm like a live specimen squished a little too harshly by a microscope, and insist that he wasn’t nice, he was a demon, and demons are patently  _ not nice. _

As Crowley enters Aziraphale’s shop, the little bell on the door tinkling pleasantly, he’s reminded that humans are often worse than demons, and that this particular breed also present in the shop currently, a landlord, is worse than most. Crowley is usually the one doing the tempting, but he feels himself swayed by a powerful temptation from some unseen power to tempt Aziraphale’s landlord into getting an unsightly face tattoo. The only thing stopping him is that he thinks that such a deed might be considered more good than bad, and even such a thoroughly satisfying good deed wouldn’t reflect well upon a demon.

He’s nearly pushed out of the way by the landlord, storming out with another man, apparently trying to calm him down but failing spectacularly. Aziraphale looks downright miserable.

“Well, he’s the cheery sort,” Crowley remarks sarcastically as he comes up to the counter, leaning against it. “Really livens up the place.”

“He’s absolutely  _ crucifying _ that poor carpenter,” Aziraphale sighs, leaning forward and resting his head on his hand. “I can’t stand it. All the fellow said was that the proposed renovations could end up causing flooding, and that he should be kinder to other people.”

“Oh, that’ll do it.”

“How has your day been, Crowley? Better than mine, I hope?”

“Eh, same old, same old. Nothing too unusual. Had a group of kids insisting that they were eighteen and asking me to give them tattoos, but that’s about it.”

“Well, that does sound a trifle more pleasant. But only a trifle. Here for your flowers?”

“As always.”

“I have them right…” Aziraphale turns to the fridge behind him, searching for the bouquet, but his shoulders slump in disappointment. “Oh, damn. In all the chaos this morning, I must have forgotten to put them together… I’m dreadfully sorry.”

“I think I can survive waiting for you to throw a bouquet together.”

“It’s not as simple as ‘throwing it together.’ These things take time, patience, a delicate hand, an artistic eye…” He keeps rambling as he seeks out flowers to put together for Crowley, and he lets him, watching him work with a small, fond smile. He wonders if he knows how utterly charming he is when he works. If he had to take a guess, he’d say that Aziraphale doesn’t, and to him, that’s a downright shame. The thought catches him a bit by surprise, and he has to remember to keep sentiments like that to himself, because Aziraphale is an angel, and Crowley is a demon, and that is that. Or maybe it doesn’t have to be. He’s not sure.


	3. May

Aziraphale only comes over to Crowley’s shop when it’s very important, but Crowley’s soon learned that “important” is, well, an objective term, and said importance is determined rather arbitrarily by Aziraphale himself. The reason for this is because the angel simply detests Crowley’s shop specifically because of the music he plays, for which he constantly comes up with more and more inaccurate descriptors (the latest of which was “bebop,” something that Crowley couldn’t even fathom how Aziraphale came up with it).

“Crowley! Not busy, I hope?” Aziraphale’s arrival is heralded by the harsh buzzing of his door’s recorded tone, his distinctive footsteps, and, of course, his voice. He’s chipper, as always, but perhaps more so today, and he’s done away with his work apron and clothes to wear a nicer (but still out of fashion) suit.

“Depends. Why do you ask?” 

“Well, undoubtedly you’ve heard that there’s a new restaurant in town.  _ Petronius’s _ , they call it.” He looks positively delighted to share this information, and even though Crowley’s not very interested in restaurants, he can nonetheless still humor him. He likes seeing how excited Aziraphale gets about these things.

“I haven’t, no. But tell me about it anyways.”

“I’ve heard that he does simply  _ remarkable _ things to oysters. Could I perhaps tempt you to dinner?” Crowley raises an eyebrow at hearing such language from the angel, and Aziraphale laughs awkwardly and hastily corrects himself. “Well, that’s your job, isn’t it? Regardless, I’m heading over there tonight, and if you’d like to join me…”

“I’ve never had oysters… I would if I could. Sorry, but I’ll have to pass up tonight.” He only sort of has other commitments tonight (things that could be put off until later, certainly), and while he certainly would enjoy going to dinner with Aziraphale, he still has his hesitations. He’d like to, but he’s not sure if it would be wise to.

“Ah. Of course. Well, that’s alright. Have a good evening, then.” Aziraphale fumbles the entire way out of the shop, and Crowley’s rather sorry to see him go. Perhaps he should have said yes. Next time, he thinks. Next time for sure.


	4. July

Aziraphale wakes up at a positively ungodly hour to sound of yelling. Not only is there yelling, but it’s a voice he’s intimately familiar with, and that makes matters all the worse. He rolls out of bed, disgruntled, and dials Crowley on his rotary telephone- even after all these years, he sees no need to update when it works just fine, even if it’s a bit slow to dial.

“What?” Crowley sounds more irritable than usual. Well, two can play at that game. Aziraphale is rather put out, being woken up so abruptly.

“What the hell is going on over there? Why are you shouting at this time of morning?”

“Just doing a bit of gardening. What else?”

“Gardening?” Aziraphale is absolutely flabbergasted. “ _ Gardening?  _ What sort of gardening involves shouting at midnight?”

“I talk to my plants. That’s how they grow so well. Don’t you, angel?”

“Talking is one thing, but you were shouting-” There’s a whirring, chopping, guttural sound on the other line, rather like a garbage disposal if someone had poured a heap of mud and salad down it. “What is that noise?”

“I have a plant that didn’t make the cut. I’m getting rid of it as an example to the others.”

So Crowley had indeed poured what was, essentially, a heap of mud and salad down his garbage disposal. “Good heavens, Crowley! That is not the way to go about things! All that poor plant needed was some love and care-”

“It disappointed me,” Crowley says simply, as if that’s enough to condemn it to eternal damnation. “Hold on just a moment.” He lowers the receiver and Aziraphale hears that familiar sound of muffling with the hand before the demon shouts “GROW BETTER!” at the presumably shaking plants. “What were you saying?” he asks, his voice back to normal.

“Not another word! Those poor plants must be terrified out of their minds.”

“They are. That’s the idea.”

“Which one of us owns a flower shop, Crowley? Must I remind you? Tell you what. I’ll come over in the morning and show you how to properly care for them.”

“You can come over, but don’t try and talk to my plants. You’ll coddle them.”

“Coddle them? The very idea!” He taps his hand impatiently on the desk. “I’m simply going to show you how to grow them without scaring the living daylights out of them at every opportunity.”

“Call it what you like, but I know it will be coddling. Anyways, if you come over, I’ll make crepes for breakfast. I’ve been meaning to try a new recipe I found.”

“There is only one thing I feel more sorry for than your plants, and that is the crepes you keep trying to make.” That is a little harsher than he intended, but it’s the truth. Crowley has a habit of burning things. “Besides, I don’t want you to go to the trouble. Why don’t we go out to eat instead?”

“Ngk, hm. Well.” There are his typical noises as he decides how to answer. “If that’s what you want, I suppose we could.”

“Delightful. I’ll see you in the morning then. Oh, and Crowley?”

“Yes?” The word is drawn out longer than it needs to be, trying to stall whatever Aziraphale’s going to say next. 

“I shan’t let you yell at your plants again, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Bah! Go back to bed, angel. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I better not be woken up again.”

“Of course not. You won’t be. G’night.”

“Good night.”


	5. August

Aziraphale makes no secret of his love of theater, especially his love of Shakespeare, and especially his love of  _ Hamlet.  _ Crowley’s not huge on theater, and especially not on tragedies, and, to be honest, especially not  _ Hamlet. _ Given these facts, Aziraphale expects immediate rejection when he casually asks Crowley if he’d like to attend the local theater company’s new production of said play, but surprisingly, after only a few seconds of thought, Crowley responds with “Why not? I’ve got nothing to do.”

The turnout is regrettably low, much to Aziraphale’s dismay. “I just can’t fathom it,” he says as they walk back to Crowley’s Bentley. “They’re a delightfully talented troupe, and yet, at this rate… well, they’ll be closed down for sure!” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Have you ever tried getting rid of a bunch of actors? They’re incredibly difficult to shoo away. Too damn persistent,” Crowley says. “I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.”

“Regardless, I  _ am _ worried.” They get in the car, Aziraphale as scrupulously as ever, and Crowley with that sauntering swagger he always carries himself with. If Aziraphale had to describe it, the first word that comes to mind is dashing, but a better descriptor would probably be thoroughly self-important with a probably uncalled for amount of confidence. “I almost feel as if it would take a miracle for anyone to come see  _ Hamlet _ .”

“Well, there you go. Problem solved. That doesn’t sound too hard.”

“Yes, but….” Aziraphale’s been reprimanded before about too many “frivolous” miracles (which, in his mind, weren’t frivolous at all, but that’s neither here nor there) and he desperately wishes to avoid another such instance.

“But what?”

“Isn’t that a bit of a misuse of power?”

“Oh, come on, angel. It’s a good deed, isn’t it?”

“I suppose, but it depends on how you look at it.”

“Does it really?” Crowley sounds a little bit incredulous, but open to suggestion.

“Yes, and… well, I’ve received some strongly worded notes recently. About… frivolous miracles.”

“ _ Frivolous _ miracles? What sort of miracles?”

“Never mind that. It doesn’t matter.” After a moment, he answers. “To do with flowers and things. I just… can’t help it, when I see happy couples getting married, or people giving flowers to the sick. Things like that. A little bit of help isn’t a crime now, is it?”

“How very like you.” There’s silence for a few moments as Crowley drives, and Aziraphale instinctively reaches up to hold onto the ceiling handle. Crowley’s always gone much too fast, and today is no exception. “Ohhhh, I see what you’re doing. Alright, angel, you win. I’ll do this one.”

“Do what?” Aziraphale asks innocently, but he’s already got a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“ _ Hamlet.  _ I can pass it off as trying to make people depressed by forcing them to go see a tragedy. My treat.”

“How very kind of you, Crowley.”

“Oh, don’t start with that again.” Crowley is very kind, deep down, but he won’t admit it.  _ I’m a demon _ , he says.  _ I’m not nice. I’m not kind _ . It’s all a front, Aziraphale knows, and a lie that he likes to believe. He’ll let him believe it, if it makes him happier to do so, and besides, it keeps Crowley out of trouble with Hell. That won’t stop Aziraphale from seeing his true nature, though.

“I won’t- good heavens, Crowley! You almost hit that poor old woman!”

“ _ Almost _ .”

“That doesn’t matter! Slow down!”

“Fine.” He draws out the word with an exaggerated sigh, but acquiesces.


	6. September

Crowley, for a change, is woken up by Aziraphale at a positively ungodly hour, and he isn’t half so cross as he thought he would be in such a situation- however, half, considering how cross he assumed he’d be, is still quite enough.

“Crowley? Oh, thank goodness you answered. I seem to have gotten in a spot of trouble, and, well… you wouldn’t be able to pick me up from the police station, by any chance?”

“Pick you up from the…” He blinked a few times, thinking that perhaps sleep had gotten to him. “Are you pulling my leg? This is revenge for the plants, isn’t it?”

“It is not about the plants, I can assure you that. I’ll explain when you get here. Please, Crowley?” He’s using that tone that Crowley is so dreadfully fond of, the one he can’t say no to, and Crowley sighs dramatically. 

“Oh, alright, alright. I’m coming. I’ll be there in a few.”

“Whatever you do, don’t drive too quickly. I know you speed-”

“No promises.” He hangs up, and is at the station much more quickly than someone obeying traffic laws would be. He’s tempted to just miracle Aziraphale out to avoid the hassle of due process and all that, but a few warning looks from the angel tell him not to, and after too much time, in his opinion, Aziraphale is free again and joining Crowley in the Bentley.

“What exactly did you do to get stuck in there? It’s not really your thing, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t intentional!” Aziraphale says, looking mildly offended. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, you know.” He sighs, as if he had been carrying the whole weight of the world on his shoulders and can now finally set it down to rest. “Oh, Crowley, it’s been a dreadful past few hours. The nerve of those officers! I hadn’t done anything, you know…” He goes on to tell a winding tale about how he somehow got arrested alongside some robbers, in a series of events that are most mildly described as “in the wrong place at the wrong time” and more accurately as “one catastrophic instance of bad luck after another, almost hilarious in their increasing severity.”

“I have to ask, what started all this? It’s not like you to be out this late.” Hell, it’s not even like  _ Crowley _ to be out this late, and he’s a demon.

“I wasn’t out this late to start with, but, as you know… things didn’t turn out as planned. I was feeling a bit peckish, so I went out, around seven, for some crepes-”

“Crepes?  _ Crepes?  _ That’s what started this?” It’s almost endearing- scratch that, it  _ is _ endearing- how stubborn Aziraphale can be once he’s set his mind on something, even when that something is as insignificant as crepes.

“Yes,” he huffs, “but it really was just a matter of circumstances. And I couldn’t miracle myself out, of course, because of reprimands and the like, so I had to wait for you. Thank you for coming to rescue me, Crowley.” He pats his hand briefly, and Crowley almost recoils from the touch- he’s not used to such physical affection. It’s rather nice, though, especially coming from Aziraphale, and he wishes his hand would linger a little longer than it does.

“Don’t say that. I would never ‘rescue’ an angel. That’s not what demons do.”

“Right, right. Of course. Regardless, could I treat you to lunch tomorrow?”

“I suppose so. How about _ Petronius’s _ ? Or are you still wanting crepes?”

“I think  _ Petronius’s  _ will do just fine. You’ll finally be able to try an oyster! The reviews were all spot on, I assure you. Never in my life have I had something that good...” 

Aziraphale has that little satisfied smile again as he rambles on, and Crowley tries not to look too long at it. He doesn’t need to add distracted driving to his prodigious list of motoring sins; however, he is a demon, so, he decides, perhaps another glance won’t hurt. It’s hard to tear his eyes away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued, when I can dedicate the time to do justice to the final chapters


	7. November

Renovations are finally underway at the flower shop, and while Aziraphale could technically stay in his little apartment at the back of the shop, he’d really rather not, thank you very much. All the hammering and pounding and other assorted construction noises feel rather like they’re attacking his ears as viciously as the renovation team is attacking the building, and it makes him a bit queasy, if he’s being honest. What makes him even queasier is asking Crowley if he could stay over, and he’s not sure why- it’s not like they don’t know each other well, or that he doesn’t trust him, or even the fact that he’s a demon. It’s just a certain feeling he gets around him, like the floor’s going to fall out from under him and only Crowley can catch him.

Even so, he steels himself and marches into Crowley’s tattoo parlor right before closing, confident as you please until he catches sight of the other man cleaning up for the day, and then that falling feeling catches him off guard. 

“We’re almost closed,” Crowley says, not looking up. “Come back tomorrow.”

“Oh, well, I’m afraid that won’t quite do.” Aziraphale tries to shake the feeling as much as he can, but then Crowley’s eyes are on him and it hits him again.

“What are you doing here, angel? And what’s the blanket for?” he asks, briefly looking down at the blanket in Aziraphale’s arms, then the small suitcase he’s holding. “And the suitcase?”

“They’re doing renovations at my shop, you see, and to be honest, all the noise is giving me a headache. I was hoping that, perhaps… I could spend a day or two here, if possible, perhaps on the sofa, or something like that…”

“I s’pose you could,” Crowley shrugs. “You don’t have to take the sofa, though. You can have the bed.”

“Really? How generous of you, Crowley,” he smiles.

“I’m a demon. I’m not generous.”

“Whatever you say.” Even if Crowley denies it, he knows the truth, and his smile gets a little more smug than usual. “Well, since I’m here, what can I do to help?”

* * *

Aziraphale learns that night that perhaps he was a bit too… well, generous, in describing Crowley as generous. Not that he isn’t, but it’s not to the degree he was expecting, he realizes as Crowley flops down into his bed (which is rather large). 

“Oh, are we sharing?” Aziraphale asks hesitantly, and Crowley gives him a look- much sharper than usual now that he’s not wearing the glasses.

“Is that a problem, angel?”

“No, I just… wasn’t. Expecting it.” There goes that falling feeling again, and this time, Aziraphale thinks that even if Crowley does catch him, it will only make it worse. What use will Crowley catching him be if the floor is out from underneath both their feet?

“Well, don’t just stand there. Get in bed.”

Aziraphale gingerly does so, arranging his nightshirt primly as he gets in on the other side. “This is quite cozy. Your bed, I mean.”

“Really? I thought it wouldn’t be cushy enough for you.”

“Well… it is.”

“Good to hear.” He claps his hands and the lights go out (Aziraphale’s unsure if that was a minor miracle, or if he has one of those newfangle, at least in his mind, clapper lights). “G’night, angel.” Crowley’s voice sounds a little softer than usual, and it makes Aziraphale feel warm, or perhaps that’s from the fact that they’re laying so close to each other. Either way, he enjoys it, and he falls asleep surprisingly quickly.

* * *

When Aziraphale wakes, the first thing he noticed is that he’s still pleasantly warm, and he stretches a little, a sleepy smile on his face. He hasn’t slept so well in forever, he thinks, and it feels nice. He wonders why.

He realizes why he’s so warm, at least, a few moments later, when he feels Crowley curled up again him. He’s a little surprised, at first, but in a moment he smiles. It’s quite adorable, actually, to see how eagerly the demon’s curled up to him in his sleep. Crowley is definitely softer than he lets on, and who is Aziraphale to deny him a little bit of snuggling? It must be awfully cold and lonely in his austere, dark apartment… but then again, he knows that Crowley will throw a fit if he wakes up next to the angel, probably because it would “tarnish his image” or some such nonsense, and so Aziraphale gets up to go put on a kettle for tea.

On the way to the kitchen, he notices Crowley’s plants in the living room, just as vividly green and, frankly, ridiculously large as he remembers them. The photos he’s seen don’t do them justice, for they truly are beautiful, and he can understand why Crowley’s proud of them, but remembering the way he yells at them leaves him with a little twisting feeling in his stomach. “Oh, this simply won’t do…” he mutters to himself, and approaches the plants. “Hello,” he says, with a cheery wave as he tilts himself a little to the side. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Aziraphale. I don’t suppose you have names, do you? Well, that’s alright.” He approaches the closest plant to examine the leaves. “My, aren’t you simply gorgeous? You must have worked very hard to grow so beautifully.” The plant seems pleased, and even moves a little towards his touch, which he takes as a good sign, and he strokes the broad leaf. “And so strong, too! I’m very proud of you.” He goes from plant to plant, giving them similar pep talks, and he swears that by the time he’s done they’ve all grown at least a few centimeters.

He’s just talking to the last one when he hears a familiar voice. “Angel! What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m simply complimenting your plants. Is that such a crime?”

“You’ll coddle them.”

Aziraphale’s gaze drops to the cup of tea in Crowley’s hand- the one that he had forgotten to prepare for himself. “What, like you’re coddling me?” he asks a little smugly, even though he’s also flattered by the act. That falling feeling is back, but now, he thinks he can handle it. Maybe.

“I… what? You think I’m…” He makes a few more offended noises. “No! I’m not!” He’s looking everywhere but at Aziraphale, and huffing while he’s at it. “I’m just trying to be polite, is all. You’re being ungrateful.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I do apologize.” He accepts the tea graciously and sips it. “Mm, splendid. Thank you very much, Crowley. You’ve made it perfectly.”

“I should think I’d know how after watching you do it so many times.”

“You’ve been watching me make tea?” The thought that he’s been paying such close attention fairly tickles him pink, and gives him a little unexpected giddy feeling.

“Not on purpose,” Crowley sharply corrects him, but Aziraphale can see that he’s lying. “Don’t let it get cold. And, for the last time, don’t coddle my plants!”

Aziraphale allows himself a little private smile as he watches Crowley water them, grumbling the whole time. He really is more considerate than he lets on. 


	8. December

Aziraphale and Crowley have gotten much cozier since Aziraphale’s near week-long stay at his apartment, and today is no exception. Aziraphale dearly wants to go see the Christmas tree lighting in the square that evening, and Crowley agrees, despite the fact that he’s made it clear he doesn’t do well with cold, and probably won’t last long. 

“Isn’t it just beautiful?” Aziraphale asks, watching the lights go on as cheery holiday music blares from speakers around the square. “I always love this time of year.”

Crowley sniffles, looking utterly miserable in the cold. His nose is red and he has at least four layers on, if not more. “It’s a bit bright, isn’t it?”

“Well, I suppose it is bright, but it’s Christmas! It’s a joyous time of year! Things are bound to be bright.”

“Hmph.” He sniffles again.

“Are you cold? Even after putting on all that?”

“Do you always go to these sorts of events? Every year?”

“You’re dodging the question.” Aziraphale lowers his voice. “You know, Crowley, if you’re that cold, just transform. We can pretend you’re a scarf, and you can hide under my coat.”

“Too many people around,” Crowley whispers back.

“Well, it’ll just be a minor miracle to make sure you’re not noticed.”

“Weren’t you getting in trouble for too many of those ‘frivolous’ miracles?” He gives Aziraphale a knowing look.

“That was months ago,” Aziraphale huffs. “Besides, it’s Christmas. Isn’t it time for a little frivolity?”

“Suit yourself,” Crowley shrugs, and within moments, Aziraphale’s scarf is replaced by a thick black snake. He feels chilly for a second, but that’s soon replaced by a pleasant warmth whose source he can’t quite put his finger on. It’s not from Crowley, certainly, but rather… feels more like it’s radiating from his heart. 

“Cozy enough?” Azirphale asks, peeking down at him as he adjusts himself around the angel’s neck. It certainly seems like it, and that warms his heart a little more.

“Cozy enough,” the snake says, looking rather satisfied with his current position in life.

“Good to hear.”

They wander among the crowd a little longer, Aziraphale taking his time as he threads his way amongst carollers, shouting children, and vendors selling hot nuts, Christmas ornaments, trinkets, and cakes. Feeling a bit peckish, he buys some nuts, and continues browsing, humming along with the music as he does. There’s something about Christmastime that always makes everything feel a little brighter, and having Crowley here makes it even better, even if the demon isn’t much for celebrating. 

When he thinks about it, he realizes that having Crowley around has always made things a little brighter, even if he spends most of his time being sarcastic, snippy, and generally pretending that he doesn’t care when he really does. He has a heart of gold underneath, Aziraphale knows, and he treasures all those little glimpses of it that he gets from time to time. Almost absentmindedly, he reaches up to give the snake around his neck a few gentle pets. “Still comfortable, Crowley?” he whispers, and there’s no response. He must be asleep. Aziraphale smiles fondly. How adorable.

Adorable. He’s never really thought of Crowley that way, and for the briefest of moments he wonders if it has to do with that funny falling feeling that’s been plaguing him. He’s been enjoying his time with Crowley more and more lately, ever since he stayed in his apartment, and his thoughts have been occupied more and more with Crowley’s face, and his voice, and those beautiful golden eyes that he rarely gets a glimpse of, and he feels so much more comfortable and at home around him than he does when he’s alone, and-

Aziraphale slips on some ice and lands on his bum, the realization hitting him almost as hard as the ground does. Good heavens, he’s in love. He’s in love and it took him this long to realize it.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asks, sleepily lifting his head.

“Yes, I just… lost my footing,” Aziraphale mumbles, trying to avoid looking directly at Crowley. Fortunately, he’s too sleepy to notice, and he simply settles back down, snuggling a little tighter, but not uncomfortably so.

“If you say so.”

“Yes, yes…” He slowly stands, finding his footing again on a patch of snow that isn’t icy, and continues wandering the square, feeling rather like he’s swimming in a hazy, multi-colored fog. He’s in love with Crowley. He’s in love, and he’s alternately overjoyed and confused. This wasn’t expected, and yet it feels so right and so perfect, except for the fact that… does Crowley love him back? He has been awfully cuddly lately, but…

That’s a question to ponder for later, Aziraphale thinks, just trying to process his own emotions first. He stops in front of a booth selling little knit caps and gloves and scarfs, seeing it and yet not seeing it as he thinks a little more. He’s in love. Good heavens, he’s in love, and he doesn’t know how to say it.

When he finally snaps out of it, his eyes fall on a set done in black with swirling, almost snakelike golden patterns. He thinks about how warm it would keep Crowley and how handsome he would look in it (everything looks handsome on him, but that’s besides the point), and he thinks about how sometimes words aren’t needed to tell someone you love them, and almost as if a man possessed he’s buying it, and the seller wraps it up with brown paper and some string, and Aziraphale heads home with the package tucked under his arm, leaving the crowds and lights behind. 

His shop is just as bright, with little Christmas displays in the window and lights on the canopy over the door, stretching those three steps down the street to decorate Crowley’s canopy as well. It was a struggle to get him to agree to it, but Aziraphale thinks back on it and realizes that he wasn’t really  _ that _ opposed to the idea- all of his protests had been weak and mostly vocalized as those adorable conflicted sounds he made. He was much softer than he pretended.

Aziraphale goes inside, to his apartment in the back, and within minutes there’s a fire built and a kettle on to boil. Once his tea is made, he settles down on the couch, the sleeping Crowley still around his neck, and he settles down, sighing as he sips his tea. Even if Crowley feels the same, there’s still the issue of them being an angel and a demon, but… Well, he’s sure they can work around that. Heaven and Hell have left them alone, for the most part, for quite a while, beyond a few strongly worded notes about “frivolous” miracles. There shouldn’t be a reason to worry.

“‘Ziraphale…” he hears a sleep voice say, and then Crowley’s head is bumping against his cheek. “Back home already?”

“Yes. It was getting a bit chilly, even for me. You can stay here tonight, if you like.”

“Thanks.” He’s asleep again, and after finishing his tea, Aziraphale settles in comfortably and closes his eyes. He likes falling asleep in front of the fire, and he’s done so many times before with Crowley. This time, he feels a little warmer and brighter. 


End file.
